Georgia O’Keeffe, New Mexico, 1929
She’s bought a car, her first. It’s black.
It waits for her beside the kerb. It’s faithful.
Its clean lines curve as lovely as a flower
but it is armour, engine, invitation.
Her spirits rise as she inhales the tonic
fragrances of petrol, leather, chrome.
She wakes its power when she turns the key.
Her eyes flick up to check the world behind.
She’s changing gear now, awkwardly at first
but then each time a smoother modulation.
She feels her body settling on the seat.
Her hands upon the wheel are useful again.
The city is a dream of crowds and noise.
She is American: the country opens before her.